


Paint Yourself Across Me In Black and Red

by leonidaslion



Series: Suite!verse [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-08
Updated: 2011-04-08
Packaged: 2017-10-17 18:29:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/179906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leonidaslion/pseuds/leonidaslion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean can run all he wants, but Sam won't let him hide ...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paint Yourself Across Me In Black and Red

**Author's Note:**

> [Art](http://charlie-d-blue.livejournal.com/9415.html) by charlie-d-blue  
> [More Art](http://charlie-d-blue.livejournal.com/13379.html) by charlie-d-blue  
> [Art + Fanmix](http://abendiboo.livejournal.com/13726.html") by abendiboo
> 
> [Vid](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZyyQMBKWG3I) by loverstar  
> [Trailer](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CWxN30zvGw8) by loverstar  
> [Vid 2](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CJmC3R8PME4&feature=related) by loverstar
> 
> [Audiofic](http://audiofic.jinjurly.com/category/seriessuiteverse) by juice817

Dean heads straight for the door, his bag slung over one shoulder. He can feel Bobby and Ellen and Deacon watching him, but he’s already said everything to them that he’s going to. Ignoring them, he drops his hand on the doorknob and turns it.

Or tries to.

“Unlock the fucking door,” he growls.

“No.” It’s Bobby who speaks, so it’s Bobby that Dean hurls his bag at in a fit of helpless anger when he whirls around. The man dodges it easily, of course, which only makes Dean feel worse.

“I have to leave, damn it!” he insists.

Bobby gives him a long-suffering look, but there’s pity in his eyes. Dean drops his own gaze with a flush of shame, and the armor of his anger slips. Confusion and fear flood up to take its place. He hates that look: hates that, for once in his life, he actually feels like he deserves it.

“You’re not going anywhere, son,” Deacon speaks up from the table where a map of the United States is spread out. Just last night, Dean went over it with a Sharpie, marking out the territory that the demons hold. How far their front lines have advanced. There’s a whole Hell of a lot of black on the paper.

“He knows,” Dean argues, even though he promised himself that he wouldn’t get into this with them again. His throat feels hot and raw, like all the yelling he did earlier has mangled it.

Keeping his voice soft like he’s trying to calm a spooked horse, Bobby says, “It was just a dream.”

Dean can hear Ellen’s footsteps as she moves closer to him, but when the touch comes, gentle at his shoulder, he still flinches away. “Honey,” she murmurs, “Why don’t you sit down over here. I’ll get you some—”

“No.” Dean pulls away from her, gathering what’s left of his strength to raise his eyes from the floor. “It wasn’t ‘just a dream.’ It was _him_. He said he knew where I was. He said he was …” He has to swallow before he can say it. Has to fight down the panic that threatens to choke him. “ … he said he was coming ‘to collect me’.”

“You’re in a warded church, Dean,” Bobby says for what has to be the hundredth time. “I’m running through an obfuscation ritual every other hour, there’s a devil’s trap on all the doors and windows, and you’ve got about twenty different holy symbols hanging around your neck. He _can’t_ find you.”

Wordlessly, Dean raises his hands. The metal bracelets circling his wrists—an unpleasant souvenir of his time with his brother—are glowing brighter than the lamps in the room. They feel warm against his skin.

“What about these?” he asks.

Bobby sighs. “I’m working on it, but it’s gonna take me some time to figure out how to get them off. They’re somehow tied in with your soul, and I don’t want to chance—”

“That’s not what I meant,” Dean snaps.

It isn’t. He doesn’t give a flying fuck that Bobby can’t get them off. Well, that’s not exactly true. He cares: he cares like hell. He just hasn’t been very surprised at the man’s continual failures. Not when Sam looked so smug as he bent the things closed around Dean’s wrists. Not when his brother welded them shut with a smear of his own blood and a kiss.

Dean knows high ritual when he sees it, so he knows that, unless Sam decides otherwise _(fat fucking chance)_ , he’ll be wearing these particular bracelets until he dies. When he can’t even manage to hack through his own wrist to get one of the things off _(and yeah, he actually got that desperate a few days ago; hello insanity)_ , then he’s pretty fucking stuck.

No, what’s _really_ bothering him is the fact that the damned things have been pulsing steady warmth into his skin since he woke up screaming this morning. What bothers him is that he can still feel Sam’s hands sliding through his hair. What bothers him is that Sam is coming—Sam is on his way _right now_ —and no one will listen to him.

“What if he’s figured out a way to track me through these? Huh? What if he can go around all the rituals and this—” He jangles the necklaces. “—shit?”

“He can’t.”

“Sorry, Bobby. I’m not gonna take your word for that.” Dean turns, heading for the door again—he’ll smash his way out if he has to—and suddenly Bobby’s got his hands clenched around his arms. He angles Dean off course and slams him face-first into the wall.

“Goddamn it, Dean!” he shouts. “Are you so eager to die?”

A nauseating lump coalesces in Dean’s stomach, draining all of his strength. “He won’t kill me,” he says softly. It’s the truth and Bobby knows it, even if he’s doing his best to pretend that he doesn’t.

Sam wasn’t all that particular in those last few days Before, and Bobby must have seen. He had to have noticed the way that Sam’s hand tended to linger at the nape of Dean’s neck. The way he trailed slow fingers up and down Dean’s arm before Dean finally got up and moved around to the other side of the table. He must have seen the hickies on Dean’s neck and the heavy bruises from Sam’s fingers circling Dean’s wrists.

Yeah, Sam wasn’t particular at all.

“You telling me you want that from him now?” Bobby asks, confirming what Dean’s suspected for the last two weeks. His voice drops to a whisper, too low for anyone else in the room to hear. “You want to be that for him? Be some kind of kept whore?”

Dean always thought that the world would shatter if someone ever gave tongue to the thing lying heavy and charged between him and Sam, but now that it’s finally happened everything is still chugging along uninterrupted. That heavy sickness in his gut _does_ give a disconcerting somersault, but that’s more at the prospect of what Bobby’s suggesting than the fact that Bobby’s suggesting it.

There’s still enough of the old Dean in him to be glad that Bobby’s keeping it close to his chest, though: still enough that he’d be devastated if Ellen or Deacon or Jo found out. Bobby’s different; he can handle it with Bobby. The man’s pragmatic enough to see it for what it _(was)_ is, and he’s always known that Dean needs Sam in ways that he probably shouldn’t.

In fact, Dean’s a little relieved to have someone to talk to about it: relieved that one other person, at least, knows what he’s really running from.

“Do you?” Bobby demands, shaking Dean a little to get his attention.

Dean parts dry lips and breathes out, “No.”

Dropping his head forward, Bobby rests his brow at the base of Dean’s neck. His shuddering sigh is hot on Dean’s shoulder blades, and Dean can’t help but think that Sam used to bury his head there when he came, his mouth loose and sloppy where Bobby’s breath is ghosting now. He shudders and Bobby raises his head, mistaking _(please God, mistaking)_ that movement for fear.

“I’m not gonna let him do that to you, Dean,” Bobby promises. “And I’m not gonna let _you_ let him do it, either. Not if I have to knock you out and keep you tied to a fucking chair.”

Bobby steps back and Dean uses the space to turn around, but he doesn’t move away from the wall. Right now, it’s the only thing holding him up.

“If he finds you here with me, he’ll kill you. He’ll—“ His voice breaks embarrassingly, but Dean pushes on anyway. “You didn’t see him, Bobby. He was so pissed.”

That’s pretty much the understatement of the year. Sam wasn’t just ‘pissed’ in the dream, he was _nuclear_. His rage was an almost physical presence, clogging the air with heat. And although he had only hinted at it, Sam had given Dean the impression that, while he was having a ‘talk’ with his ‘wayward brother’, he was also relieving some tension in the real world. That he was painting his anger in bloody splatters on some distant ceiling so that he wouldn’t rip Dean’s skin from his bones when he retrieved him.

Shoving the memory of the dream out of his head, Dean continued, “But if I leave, I can stay one step ahead of him. I can lead him away, maybe give you a chance to—”

“That isn’t just your decision to make,” Ellen cuts in. “You may be a pretty large target right now, but you’re also our best weapon. You know Sam better than anyone—what we can expect from him, his weaknesses. We’re gonna need you if we’re gonna have a chance at winning this thing.”

She isn’t saying anything but the truth, but that doesn’t mean Dean has to like hearing it. He grimaces and shakes his head, shoulders bunching mulishly. “No one else is dying for me, damn it. It’s not worth it.”

“You mean _you’re_ not worth it,” Bobby growls. His anger might have been impressive before Sam’s little performance last night.

Dean just shrugs, some of the defiant energy slipping from him. These days, he’s too fucking tired to keep that kind of thing up for long.

“This war?” he says. “All the killing and the Hell on Earth shit? That’s my fault. If I’d left it alone when Sam—when he—” Even now he can’t say it. Even with what his brother has become, he can’t bear to think about that horrible day and a half when Sam lay motionless on a table with a gaping hole in his spine.

“You didn’t know,” Bobby says, same as he always does when this particular topic comes up. “Sam made his own decisions, and you can’t take them on yourself.”

Like hell he can’t. There are millions dead—probably billions by now—and the entire eastern half of the United States is a virtual carnival of slaughter and torment. Sam did that. Sam did it for him.

Dean may have forgotten a lot of things over the last few months, but he still knows how to take responsibility for his fuck ups.

He opens his mouth to steer the conversation back on track and that’s when the door melts in on itself. The flames are red—not the orange-red of a normal fire, but bright, candy apple red tinged with something deeper that Dean can only describe as the color of blood. He’s never seen it before, but he recognizes it from the descriptions he read in Bobby’s books.

That’s hellfire. Honest to God _hellfire_.

The cuffs on his wrists give an almost painful pulse of heat and Dean knows who it is even before the flames suck back into themselves to allow his brother passage through the doorway. Sam’s eyes are brighter than the fire, and they fasten on Dean instantly, robbing him of his breath.

“ _Dean_ ,” Sam purrs, and it’s ‘missed you’ and ‘need you’ and ‘I’m gonna fuck you up for this’ all at once.

Dean tries to beg—not for himself, but for Bobby and Ellen and Deacon, who are scrambling for weapons that won’t do them any good. For Jo, upstairs sanctifying rounds with the priest who’s been stupid enough to put the five of them up. Maybe he can convince Sam to kill them quickly, at least.

But he can’t make his throat work as his brother stalks toward him, stone floor smoking underneath his boots. Sam completely ignores the bullets that rip through him, and Dean can’t even see any blood, although his brother’s clothes are pretty much torn to shreds in seconds. Then Sam’s there—he’s _right there_ pressing up against Dean like an overgrown feral cat—and Dean can’t see anything but his brother’s face. Can’t feel anything except for the heavy, honeyed weight of his brother’s power pouring over him.

Sam leans in, and for a terrifying, heart-stopping moment, Dean thinks that his brother is going to kiss him right here in front of everyone. He knows that Sam’s not going to be satisfied with a little lip on lip action—not as worked up as he is. He’s going to take it all: take everything Dean gave him willingly Before and won’t be able to stop him from taking now.

And what comes out of Dean’s mouth in an embarrassing whimper is, “Not in front of them. Sam, _please_.”

Sam hesitates—only a fraction of a second, but Dean’s intent enough on him that he notices—and then shifts his aim and brushes his lips against Dean’s ear instead. “I’ll deal with you later,” he breathes, and then the press of his power intensifies and darkness rolls up to drag Dean under.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

When he wakes up, it takes him a few minutes to understand that he isn’t dreaming anymore. He would have figured it out sooner, but his body feels funny—like he’s floating—and it’s difficult for him to think. When he finally realizes he’s awake, he catalogues the dry, bitter taste in his mouth and thinks, _He drugged me._

Sam hasn't resorted to chemical control since that last, horrible night that Dean refuses to think about, and Dean wonders if this is what he gets for briefly slipping Sam's leash: wonders with a dull fear if his last lucid thought has come and gone without him knowing. When someone touches his hair, his body tries to jump. The best it can manage is a slow, dream-like twitch.

“It’s okay, Dean. I’m here.” Sam’s voice. Sam sounding so kind: sounding worried about him.

Dean’s chest loosens in a flash of understanding. These last few months have all been some kind of drugged-out nightmare. Something they were hunting—something like that djinn—must have dosed him and sent him into some fucked up dream world. But Sam’s found him again, and he’s taking care of him, and everything’s going to be fine.

“Sammy,” Dean mumbles, and the light touch on his head turns into a caress.

“Right here, man. How’re you feeling?”

“Like someone ruffied me,” Dean answers. He makes a concerted effort and manages to get his eyes open.

Everything’s a blur, but he thinks he can make out one of his arms lying stretched out to one side. Another moment of concentration and he sees something flesh-colored twitch in the distance. Yeah, definitely his hand.

Things are coming to him faster now that his brain’s warming up. He knows that he’s lying on his stomach, but he doesn’t seem to be in a bed because it’s hard as a rock beneath him. It feels a little like some kind of table. Is he hurt? Did Sam bring him to a clinic?

Dean doesn’t feel hurt, though, and even when he’s been fucked up badly enough to go into shock, he’s always known that something was wrong. Right now, aside from being high as a kite, he feels fine.

“Where are we?” he mumbles.

“Hotel,” comes the ready answer, and that’s normal enough, but then Sam follows up with, “Royal Suite.”

Nothing about this situation is adding up right. There’s the table, and the drugs, and now this whole ‘royal suite’ business. When Dean concentrates, he can add the fact that both of his arms are stretched out to either side of him to the growing list. It’s a strange position for him: he imagines that he looks like he’s been crucified face down.

Before he can truly appreciate how odd _that_ is, Dean’s distracted by the realization that he’s naked. It wouldn’t necessarily bother him in and of itself, but he and Sam aren’t alone in the room. He can hear Sam talking to someone: asking how long this is going to take.

Dean tries to move—tries to push himself up onto his hands and knees at least, so that he can get off the table—and can’t. He can’t move because something _(it’s cuffs, it’s the fucking bracelets that Sam put on him, that Sam melted shut)_ is pinning his arms to the table. His ankles are similarly fastened, chained both together and to the table that he’s lying on.

It’s difficult to panic in the drugged state he’s currently in, but Dean thinks he’s managing pretty well at this point.

“Sam …”

“Yes, Dean?”

“Can’t move.”

The hand in his hair grips and moves his head around so that he’s looking in Sam’s direction. Sam’s sitting in a chair next to him, and he’s wearing a loose, soft-looking shirt in that dark forest green that Dean thinks looks so good on him. Even with his blurred vision, it doesn’t take Dean long to notice that there’s something wrong with his brother.

Something wrong with his eyes.

His yellow eyes.

It hits him in a blinding, dizzying rush. It’s all real. Sammy—his Sammy—is gone. The world is burning. Bobby and Ellen and Deacon and Jo are dead by now, and this new and improved Sam probably made sure they died screaming.

Dean doesn’t realize he’s crying until his brother wipes the moisture away with one gentle hand.

“Don’t worry; it’s not for long,” Sam assures him. “You’ll be up and around in no time.”

Dean could tell his brother that he isn’t crying about being chained to the damned table, but he doesn’t think that Sam will be able to understand. Besides, he doesn’t want to hear Sam talk about it: the way they begged, what their blood felt like on his hands. More deaths on Dean’s head—people he knows, people he cares about.

Gone because he couldn’t let Sam go.

“Goddamn it, Sammy,” he moans.

Sam just smiles at him, wide and easy and bright enough that Dean can see it clearly enough even though his eyes aren’t exactly being cooperative. “Sorry, Dean, but I can’t have you wandering off and getting lost again.” Letting out a sigh, he drops their foreheads together. “I was going out of my mind with worry. Missed you so fucking much.”

Dean doesn’t respond—can’t think of anything to say other than, ‘get the hell off me, you son of a bitch’, which is only going to make things worse for him. Sam seems to take his silence for agreement because he lifts his head again and shifts forward. It takes Dean a few moments to realize that his brother is angling for one of those upside down kisses that look so romantic in the movies and are so awkward in real life, and then he turns his head to the other side.

The room is spinning from the abrupt movement and his heart is pounding with expectation. He expects Sam to lash out at him for his refusal: expects the hand still cupping the back of his head to turn hostile. What he isn’t expecting is the sudden burst of laughter from the corner of the room.

“Looks like he isn’t interested anymore.”

Dean knows that voice. It belongs to the yellow-eyed son of a bitch that did this to Sam: to the bastard who’s walking around with a few pints of Winchester running through its veins.

“He will be,” Sam says, stroking the soft hair at the nape of Dean’s neck: his spot. The calm, confident assertion turns Dean’s stomach.

“You sound pretty sure,” the demon notes.

“I am. Dean loves me. Even now, he still wants me.”

And _that_ sure as fuck isn’t true. God, how can Sam even _think_ that he’s still capable of getting it up when Dean watched his brother eviscerate an entire family with nothing more than a rusty can opener and his own hands? When Sam has just slaughtered their few remaining friends?

“You could take him now,” the demon urges. “Why not just do it, Sammy? You want him, and he’s all spread out for you, ready and—”

“Shut up.” Sam’s voice is cold; the words fall from his lips like jagged chunks of ice. Now his hand tightens in Dean’s hair: possessive. “You gave him to me, and that makes him mine. I’ll do what I want to him, when I want, and you’ll keep your fucking mouth shut on the subject.”

It’s like hearing two dogs fighting over a scrap of meat. The really scary thing is that Sam turns out to be the bigger dog.

“It was just a suggestion.” There’s an unfamiliar thrum of nervousness in that hateful voice.

“Go ‘suggest’ somewhere else, then,” Sam’s says dismissively, and relaxes his hold. “We’re busy.”

“Suit yourself.” Dean hears the door open and then, with a last, lingering chuckle, the demon is gone.

For a moment he thinks it’s just the two of them again, but then a man clears his throat from the vicinity of Dean’s feet and a deep, unfamiliar voice asks, “You want me to do this now, or should I come back later?”

“No,” Sam answers instantly. “Now. I want it done now before the drugs wear off.” He trails his hand down the back of Dean’s neck and traces whorls across his shoulder blades with one nail. “It won’t hurt, Dean,” he promises. “And I’ll be right here with you the entire time.”

What _won’t hurt?_ Dean wants to demand, but then he hears the buzzing start up behind him and he knows. He’s been in too many seedy tattoo parlors hunting down info on a job not to recognize the sound those needles make. He tenses, trying to fight his way out of the restraints. It’s useless and he knows it, but panic is raising its ugly head again, and he can’t help himself. The rush of adrenaline chases away some of the drugged fog, too.

Right now clarity doesn’t seem like much of an improvement.

Sam notices his fear—hell, these days Sam can probably _smell_ it—but his ‘I’m here’ and ‘it’s gonna be fine’ sound more amused than reassuring. Dean fights harder. He doesn’t know what Sam’s planning on inking into his skin, but knows that it isn’t going to be anything as harmless as a bikini-clad girl or a grinning skull. Sam’s hands grow less gentle; fingertips dig into Dean’s skin to hold him still.

“Stop struggling,” Sam snarls, annoyed.

Dean has no choice but to obey as his brother’s power settles over his body like a layer of cement, locking him in place. Only his head is still free, but he’s too far gone now to keep fighting even on that limited level. Panting, he drops his face down onto the tabletop. The back of his neck feels sweat-slick, and the room spins around him: adrenaline and whatever drugs his brother pumped him full of don’t seem to mix.

Sam’s grip eases up and those familiar, once-loved hands go back to their unwanted caresses. “Much better.”

“Don’t do this to me, Sam. Please.” He’s fucking pathetic. Reduced to begging for the second time in … well, however long it’s been since the church. Dean has no way of knowing how long Sam kept him under.

Sam ignores his pleas, of course. It’s not like Dean expected anything else, but that still has the power to hurt him, even now. Even after everything else Sam has done.

Smiling down at Dean encouragingly, Sam strokes one hand through his hair while trailing the fingers of his other hand across his lower lip. It’s the most he’s touched Dean in months, and Dean knows that it’s meant to be reassuring, but it’s having the opposite effect. Pressure is building inside of his throat, and it’s going to come out as either a scream or a goddamned waterfall of tears.

Then the first press of the needle comes, low on Dean’s left hip, and even though he doesn’t feel anything but a tickling pressure, his lips part in a hiss. Sam’s thumb slips up and along the inside of his mouth before, Dean’s certain, Sam realizes what’s happening. There’s nothing deliberate in his brother’s reaction: nothing calculated in the way he echoes Dean’s hiss, the yellow of his eyes dampening briefly to a darker, honeyed sheen.

That horrible, building pressure inside of Dean goes dead in an instant. He doesn’t think he’s ever been this still before, with Sam’s power holding his body and his own, bitter fear holding his head. Vaguely, he’s hoping that Sam will lose sight of him if he doesn’t call any more attention to himself, like that T-Rex in _Jurassic Park_. Of course, from the way Sam’s mouth curves up in a slow, sensuous smile, it’s a little late for that.

The tattoo artist begins chanting behind him, and Dean knows that he should be paying attention so he can undo this later _(if it_ can _be undone)_ , but the deafening sound of his own heartbeat drowns it out. For some reason, he can still hear his brother’s hungry murmurs just fine, though.

“Bind you to me,” Sam says. “Body, mind and soul.” He doesn’t push his thumb deeper into Dean’s mouth, but he doesn’t take it out either. It’s just … there.

After what feels like hours but is probably only a few minutes, Sam shifts his other hand down so that his nails scrape along the soft curve of Dean’s throat. Dean’s breath hitches with the burning need to move—to get some distance between them—and the vibration that the tattoo needle is setting up along his hip bone is only making it worse. Even with the drugs damping everything down, it’s too intense—his brother is too fucking _close_ and practically purring with contentment.

Dean drowns in Sam’s eyes like a fly in syrup. He can’t taste the blood that’s on Sam’s hands, or the ashes. Can only taste that familiar warmth: something clean and wild that reminds him of summer, and cricket song on a heat-filled night.

“Do you know what you do to me?” Sam asks suddenly. His voice is almost harsh. A shade away from angry. “Do you have any fucking idea how it made me feel to come home and find you gone?”

Dean wants to ask if Sam killed the demons who weren’t quite fast enough to catch him when he ran. If he tortured them first: made it slow. But Sam’s thumb gives a minute twitch against Dean’s tongue and he swallows the words instead, his breath coming fast and desperate through his nose.

Now it’ll come. Sam will press his thumb in deeper: he’ll hook the side of Dean’s mouth open with it while he unzips his pants with his other hand and then he’ll rip the last shred of Dean’s resistance away. Dean’s sick at the thought, but he already knows that he isn’t going to bite down. Even if it isn’t really Sam anymore, he isn’t going to hurt this thing that the demon made out of his brother. He can’t.

But Sam’s thumb settles and his left hand remains curled around Dean’s throat in an almost protective gesture. Obviously unaware of Dean’s minor panic attack, he continues, “I can’t let you do that to me again, man. I need you with me. So I’m sorry if you don’t like this, but you haven’t left me any other options.”

His eyes finally lift from Dean’s to trace down his spine and his thumb gives another little tremor in Dean’s mouth. “So perfect,” he breathes reverently. “Wish you could see what you look like. All those lines against your skin, marking you mine.”

Great, Sam’s having him stenciled with the demonic equivalent of ‘Property of Samuel Winchester’. An unexpected flash of annoyance drowns out Dean’s fear and he yanks his head back. Before Sam’s face can register anything but surprise, he opens his suddenly empty mouth and growls, “’M not a fucking dog.”

“No, Dean, you’re not.” Sam’s voice is deceptively soft, but Dean can read the renewed anger in his eyes. “Because if you were, I already would have had you hamstrung for trying to run off on me. That’s what you do with pets who tend to stray, isn’t it?”

His hand is back in Dean’s hair again, wrenching his head up and back to an angle that would be painful if he weren’t pumped full of what must be some pretty strong painkillers. The tattoo artist ignores them both, the needle and the chant both continuing uninterrupted over toward Dean’s right side.

“Go ahead,” Dean spits. “Cut me.”

For a moment he thinks that Sam’s going to do it; his brother’s gathering power makes the air crackle as though it’s been electrified.

Then Sam leans close enough that they’re breathing the same air and grounds out, “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Some proof that I’m not really your brother: that I’m just another monster wearing his skin? Well tough shit. It’s still me in here, and I’m not gonna hurt you.” He lays his head alongside Dean’s, pressing their cheeks together, and his hair tickles Dean’s shoulder.

“You’re mine, and I’m gonna keep you safe from everything—including that fucking martyr complex you seem to be so fond of.” He runs his free hand down Dean’s back and rests it at the base of his spine, only centimeters from the distracting tickle caused by the tattoo artist’s needle. “You see, I know what you really want, deep down inside where you’re too afraid to look. I know you still want me—still want us.”

“Bullshit,” Dean says, and he’s glad that his voice holds none of the tremors running through his muscles at having Sam draped over him like this.

“Playing hard to get is only gonna be a turn on for me up to a certain point,” Sam warns. His tongue darts out suddenly, licking a quick trail along the juncture between Dean’s shoulder and his neck. Then he’s gone, slouching back in his seat with a lazy smile and his legs open in a V.

Dean’s mouth is so dry that his tongue feels like a lump of sandpaper. “You want a side of crazy to go with that delusion?” he asks.

“You still taste like honey,” Sam announces in return, and Jesus Christ what is Dean supposed to say to _that_?

In the end, he opts for silence, turning his head away again and staring dully at a wall that is finally coming into focus. There’s a painting on the wall, and Dean’s pretty sure it wasn’t there before Sam decided to redecorate. The crow-dotted pile of bleached skulls in the middle of a wasteland doesn’t fit with that bland, comforting feel that the hospitality industry is always shooting for.

He stares at the pile of skulls and waits for this to be over. Tries to ignore the way that the tickling sensation low across his hips has started to change. The cold keeps growing, though, until it feels like the tattoo artist is shooting his skin up with liquid nitrogen instead of ink. Dean’s breath shudders out, and his body shivers against his brother’s power.

Sam’s eyes narrow and he leans forward. It’s terrifying how quickly he goes from smugly relaxed to wrathful. “What’s wrong?” he demands, looking past Dean at the tattoo artist.

The man doesn’t answer—probably can’t without fucking up the ritual—and after a few seconds of waiting for a response, Sam seems to realize that.

Focusing on Dean again, he repeats, “What’s wrong? Is he hurting you?”

Dean’s tempted to lie. Maybe Sam will lose it and splatter the needle-wielding bastard behind him across the wall. If the guy can’t stop chanting long enough to answer Sam’s question—despite the fact that Dean can feel drops of nervous sweat hitting his back now—then dying is definitely gonna cause a few problems.

He hesitates, though, because the tattoo artist might be innocent in this. He might be some talented schmuck that Sam yanked out of the slave pens. Or he might be possessed, which wouldn’t make him any more culpable. Dean’s tired of being responsible for innocent deaths. Besides, Sam’s always been able to see through him like a pane of glass: he’ll know if Dean tries to pull something.

“No,” Dean admits. “Just really cold.”

“Oh,” Sam says dismissively. His smile returns, a little softer this time. It’s probably meant to look comforting. “Yeah, sorry. Can’t do anything about that. It won’t take much longer, though, and then it’ll all be over.”

When Dean’s still shivering almost two hours later, he begins to suspect that Sam has lied to him. Or maybe time isn’t passing the way Dean thinks it is, because he’s been freezing long enough to have gone numb by now. That intense cold is still very much present, however: is, in fact, _worse_ now that the tattoo artist has made his way up from Dean’s hips to his shoulders.

Sam’s still sitting with him, his right hand curled in Dean’s hair and his thumb stroking the nape of his neck. Every once in a while, he’ll stir himself to whisper in Dean’s ear—promises or threats, depending on how Dean wants to take them. He thinks that he could take the cold indefinitely, but when combined with those words—with the images of naked, entwined flesh that Sam is forcing into his mind—it’s just too much.

“S-Sam,” he finally says, interrupting the flow of filth coming from his brother’s mouth. “I can’t—no more, please—”

And that’s when the chanting finally stops and the needle lifts from his skin.

“Finished,” the tattoo artist says in a voice rough with use.

Sam’s smile is bright enough to shame the sun. “Great!” he cries, immediately bouncing up from the chair.

Dean sees a flash of naked steel in his brother’s hand and has time to think, _Jesus Christ, is that a knife or a fucking sword?_ Then Sam climbs onto the table and straddles Dean’s legs just below his hips where that cold burn starts. Once Sam’s weight is settled, the restraining cage of his power lifts. Dean immediately uses his limited freedom to start struggling again.

“Relax, Dean,” Sam purrs. “It’s not for you.” His voice drops low enough that all Dean can make out is an unintelligible mumble, and then his breath hisses out in a pained exhale. When the knife clatters onto the table next to Dean’s head, there’s fresh blood edging the blade.

Sam’s hand drops down on his left hip where the cold starts. Dean can feel the gash across his brother’s palm as Sam runs his hand across to Dean’s other hip. In the bloody wake of his touch, Sam leaves a rush of warmth that soothes away the cold. Dean would be disgusted if he weren’t so relieved.

As Dean settles under his hand, Sam makes an encouraging noise. He follows the cold up Dean’s spine and whispers, “That’s it, Dean, just relax. This feels good, right? Why don’t you let yourself enjoy it?”

The really fucked up thing is that it does feel good. It feels good enough that Dean Jr. is perking up for the first time in months. But Dean will bite his own tongue off before he’ll admit that to his brother. Besides, it’s just the ritual making him feel this way: it has nothing to do _(yes, yes it does, you fucking liar)_ with wanting Sam.

Sam inches higher up Dean’s body so that he’s straddling his waist, and Dean’s not sure if it was his struggles to free himself earlier, or if the ritual is affecting Sam as well, or if maybe Sam is just that horny, but it’s suddenly painfully obvious that he isn’t the only one getting off on this. His brother’s breath comes shallow and fast as he chases away the last of the cold, leaving Dean lax and languid beneath him.

“There,” Sam says. “All finished.” He sits back, presumably to survey the completed product. Dean can feel him tracing the new patterns on his skin with one fingertip.

“You’re so damned beautiful like this,” Sam tells him, “You know that?”

None of the responses that spring to mind are going to get him anything but fucked, and probably in more ways than one, so Dean keeps his mouth shut.

“The things I want to do to you right now,” Sam continues, unphased by his silence.

“I’m not really in the mood, thanks.” The words seem to stick to the roof of Dean’s mouth on their way out.

Sam chuckles low in his throat and drapes himself across Dean’s back. “I’ll make it good,” he promises. “Make it so good you won’t ever want me to stop.” He gives a nudge to the nape of Dean’s neck that’s probably supposed to be playful but feels more like Sam marking out his territory. “Make you scream the whole goddamned hotel down.”

“I know you’re in there somewhere, Sammy,” Dean chokes out. He clenches his hands into fists, although it’s a useless gesture. “If you can hear me, don’t—Jesus, man, don’t—”

Sam’s stifling weight is gone so swiftly that he’s standing in front of Dean again before Dean realizes that the claustrophobic tension has lifted. He blinks at his brother—at the blood staining Sam’s shirt and dripping down from his left hand—and even now his immediate gut reaction is to check and make sure that Sam’s all right. He has to stare into those alien, yellow eyes to remind himself that the need to take care of his brother is supposed to be long forgotten.

“I told you; I’m not gonna hurt you.” Sam brushes Dean’s cheek with the knuckles of his right hand. “I can wait.”

Somewhere in the room there’s the sound of a throat being cleared and Dean starts. He’s forgotten about the tattoo artist.

“Yes?” Sam snaps, his eyes lifting to a point behind Dean’s head.

“Can I go now?” The guy, whoever _(or whatever)_ he is, has enough sense to sound nervous at least.

One corner of Sam’s mouth tilts up and Dean wants to cringe away, although that look’s not directed at him. He thinks that the tattoo artist might have done better to have quietly slit his wrists in the corner with his own needles.

“About that … I realize that this ritual of yours is pretty airtight, but Dean … well, Dean can be a real slippery son of a bitch, and I’d rather he didn’t have such a convenient resource to tap.”

“I wouldn’t—there’s nothing that he can—”

“I think that we both know there’s always a loophole,” Sam says, voice dripping with condescension. “Hell, not even death is nonnegotiable: I’m living proof of that. So maybe you’ll get another crack at things someday.”

“No. No, please, I won’t—”

Sam’s eyes flash and the tattoo artist’s babbling distorts into a high, agonized scream. Dean can smell burning flesh: can hear the popping sound he associates with things exploding in the microwave. Then the scream cuts off and there is the thump of a body hitting the floor. Sam hums to himself in a satisfied manner and returns his attention to Dean.

Fighting down his gorge at the sudden scent of death that fills the air, Dean says, “There’s a way back, isn’t there?”

“Not for you,” Sam tells him. “Not now.” He gestures at the chains holding Dean down on the table and they obediently unwind themselves from his wrists and ankles.

Cautiously, Dean pushes himself up. These last few minutes have pretty much wiped the last of the drugs from his system, so the room doesn’t spin, although his muscles are cramped from being in one position for so long. He carefully doesn’t turn around and look at what’s left of the tattoo artist.

When Dean swings his legs over the side of the table, Sam’s eyes sharpen. His brother’s gaze is hungry and feral, and Dean remembers that he’s still naked, although hearing the tattoo artist die has effectively killed his erection, at least. He looks for something to cover himself up with _(not turning around, doesn’t want to see_ that _)_ and comes up empty. Torn between a need to hide himself and a knowledge that it’s smarter to play it cool, he freezes in one place until Sam jerks his head away to stare at the wall.

“There’s a bathroom through there,” Sam says, gesturing with one hand at the door to the left of the macabre painting. “Go clean yourself up.”

“Why? Can’t stomach looking at your handiwork?” The words pop out on their own, and Dean wonders if he might be safer with his brother if he cuts his own tongue out.

Sam’s gaze slides back, his eyes darkened to an amber sheen. “Do you _want_ me to lose control?” he asks. His voice is soft, but Dean can hear the thrum of tension running beneath it. “Do you really want me to just _take_ what I want? Because right now I am so. Fucking. Close.”

Dean swallows and that tiny movement is enough for Sam’s power to flare over his skin in a caress. The slide is like warmed oil. Dean resists the urge to shudder: in a mood like this, Sam will probably take that the wrong way.

“No,” he says, carefully keeping his voice neutral.

“Then go wash me off of you. Now.”

Dean goes without any more argument, feeling Sam’s eyes on him until he shuts the door behind himself. Sam’s power seems to cling to him long after the scalding water has turned the bathroom into a steam room, resonating through the dark lines etched into his back and along his hipbones. Now that he isn’t drugged to the gills by either painkillers or Sam’s touch, his skin feels raw and puffy: sore under the hot press of the water.

But Dean’s had a lot of practice ignoring pain, and he stays where he is until Sam sends someone in to fetch him. He scrubs at the angry-looking black lines that flow over his hips and wishes that he could obey his brother for once. Wishes that he could wash every trace of Sam away. Wishes that he could be clean and whole again.

But the bracelets are heavy around his wrists, and the mark of his brother’s ownership, still painful but already looking at least a week old, is scrawled deep across his back.

 _There’s an eject button somewhere,_ Dean reminds himself as he is hauled out of the shower and a thick, soft towel is shoved into his hands. He just has to find it.

**Author's Note:**

> The painting on the wall is an actual painting: [The Apotheosis of War](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Image:Apotheosis.jpg) (1871) by Vasily Vereshchagin.


End file.
